


Tangled Up in Red

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bondage, Bull's just a bit emotionally constipated, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Drug Use, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Demands of the Qun, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Subspace, because tagging it, exploration of generational trauma, was a bit too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28714101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: “Glassy green eyes find Bull.Bull finds her under an upturned cart on the side of a muddy road.”The Inquisitor and her party pick up a child who makes Bull question his understanding of the Qun and family.
Relationships: The Iron Bull/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 15
Kudos: 35





	Tangled Up in Red

**Author's Note:**

> First fic of the year, and of course, it had to be about _them_. I started working on this in September as a warmup exercise along with the other prompts that were given in 2015 for the [ IronLion Week ](https://redxluna.tumblr.com/post/133754594940/bullen-week) and it was shaping out so well I decided I had to post it, independently of how the others turned out. ~~Then my Master’s began, I got burnt out and had writer’s block for almost two months.~~ Infinite thanks to lovely [ Red ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna) who organized the event almost six years ago and encouraged me to post them back in September <3  
> The prompt this was born out of was Day 5: Meeting the family, which I wanted to write in a less conventional way. I hope you enjoy what came out!  
> I added a small _Qunlat_ glossary and more notes at the bottom, so check that out for clarifications while reading or to go through some additional rambling.  
> As always, this was betaed by the wonderful [ 3SpidersWithAPen ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3SpidersWithAPen/pseuds/3SpidersWithAPen)

They find her on the side of the road. A pomegranate-red silk cocoon tightly wrapped around a soft ashen core. Two small nubby horns peek from a nest of ivory-white hair, plaited to frame a pale rounded face.

Glassy green eyes find Bull.

Bull finds her under an upturned cart on the side of a muddy road.

She relates to Cassandra, in broken Nevarran, how her parents made her hide underneath, how they told her she would be safe there. Her eyes don’t leave Bull’s through the whole conversation. Every mention of the People makes her mouth tighten, her posture turn demurrer. Fear, an underlying anger too; Bull can tell.

Trevelyan and Dorian shield the road ahead so she cannot see the bodies. Bull can smell the flesh burning, the crackling of flames as they lick mud. She will learn the smell too, whether it will bring forth sorrow or glory, Bull cannot tell.

Hissaara. She mutters her name twice. Once as they are crossing the sturdy bridge east of Crestwood, the cloudy evening sky making the running water underneath look murkier than it really is. The second one as they cross the portcullis into Caer Bronach, her bloody hands, scraped raw, clutching the base of Bull’s horns.

Wind of hope. Revolution.

What an easy way of turning a child into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

* * *

Praise the Chargers’ work on cleaning Adamant.

The wintry chill running through the courtyard tints Cullen’s cheeks a rosy red. Bull wonders if the same elfroot salve they use for burns in the Western Approach will help.

Reassign Stitches to the healers’ tents to help with minor injuries.

The scratch of quill against parchment a mere murmur as troops march in, as Sera runs up the stone-hewn stairs two at a time, Trevelyan hot on her heels. Cullen curls his gloved fingers for every item of the list he finishes penning down. Bull wants to check how his joints look. See if the inflammation present before he left is still there.

Share Skinner and Grim’s maps with the Scouts off to the Hissing Wastes.

A strong gust of wind almost makes all of Cullen’s very important forms and papers blow over. Bull manages to catch most of them, rearranging them so they are sitting under his inkwell or one of the small wooden carved figures sitting on top of the makeshift table. A mabari. A dragon. Andraste. Cullen dissolves into a mess of curses and apologies as his fingers brush Bull’s. Bull thinks it’s _quite_ adorable.

Request Dalish to assist the mages from Redcliffe in working side by side with untrained warriors.

The wind does not stop. Thick plume-like flakes of snow begin to fall as children screech with joy while soldiers groan. Cullen tucks his face closer to the ruff on his mantle, quill stuttering as a shiver makes his teeth chatter. Bull wants to pull him closer, buy him a better coat at least.

Assign Krem to the morning and evening drills, make him supervise—

“The Qunari child you found at Crestwood…She’s been taken under the wing of those two merchants from Hasmal that got here last month,” Cullen informs suddenly, almost noncommittally. His eyes don’t leave the table, though the twitching hand he raises to scratch the base of his neck betrays his intentions.

“She’s not Qunari, you know,” Bull finds himself saying, amused.

“ _Kossith_?” Seeing Cullen at odds with whatever is happening never ceases to be entertaining, more so with matters pertaining the Qun, as even after the Storm Coast incident, he was the third Inner Circle member who knew the most—along with Varric and Red.

“ _Vashoth_.”

“Not _tal_?” Cullen says the word tentatively, as if scared of what it can ignite inside of Bull.

“Nah, _Vashoth_ are born outside the Qun, _Tal-vashoth_ make the willing decision to leave. That kid? Dunno…Doesn’t look like someone who’s had time to be taken in.”

“Hm…So, her parents?”

Cullen’s quill is about to be blown over when Bull plucks it with deft fingers by the nib. “Since Kirkwall,” he shrugs, “it’s difficult to know who was born in and who was out. Don’t think it means much anyways.”

Bull twirls the feather in between his fingers before he hands it back to Cullen, who looks at him inquisitively. Hiding how the sinking of the dreadnaught makes him feel when over a month has gone by is futile, Cullen’s had to put up with too many of his bad moods—tantrums that have no meaning in or out of what he believed was his path. He owes him much more than that.

“This is not Seheron.”

“Nor Kirkwall,” Cullen answers swiftly, eyes firmly trained on his, mouth set in a firm straight line before a strong gust of wind makes his teeth chatter once again. Bull’s urge to kiss them shut is strong.

* * *

Bull doesn’t know what draws him towards the barracks close to the barn. Curiosity is a strong contender; he’s always had the need to know. _Ashkaari_ , _tama_ had called him.

Kasa reminds him of her, with her long white hair, neatly braided. Her horns brightly adorned with coils of cloth and metal bands that shine under the clear winter light. She’s playing with Hissaara, chasing her in through the snow as Blackwall watches from his perch close to the stables. For all his brooding, the man is but a tender-hearted fool—it makes Bull glad to have him as an ally.

“The Iron Bull,” Aanda regards him from her stall. A snarl seems to be hewn into her face, but that’s what scars do, Bull knows; they pull, distort and twist into odd angles, make you look far more dangerous than you truly are. Bull also knows that even without her scar, Aanda would look menacing. “Any rope I can offer you this fine day? We just got this beauty from Qarinus.” Her smile is all teeth as her fingers trace braided ringlets of looped red silk.

“Nah, not here for business. Just checking if the snow had left anything in need of repair ‘round here, any hauling of eves or fixing of roofs…” It’s a half-assed lie, not even a convincing one—he adorns it with a smile.

“Of course.” Her eyes don’t leave Bull, even if the softness in them as she looked at her partner and the child was unmistakable.

“How’s she doing?” He cocks his head towards Hissaara. Children seem to have gathered to play around her, all ankle-deep in the packed snow. Kasa leans against the wall now, talking to a flustered looking Blackwall.

“Fine, been a while since we had seen someone like her.”

“A war orphan?”

“Is not _war_ what took her parents lives, Bull,” her tone’s bitter, for a _Vashoth_. He sometimes wonders how she can be the one born outside the Qun and Kasa the one who escaped it.

“You gonna go search for the specific villagers who saw them on the road and beat them to death?”

“I would—but it’s something the Herald _should_ do,” she retorts headstrong. Bull also wonders if they chose their names or if balance sometimes is far too perfect with its inner trappings. _Kasaanda_ , like the plant, sundew; beautiful but deadly.

“ _Asit tal-eb_ ,” he shrugs.

It earns him another disgruntled click of the tongue, another show of her crooked teeth. “ _Vashedan_.” Aanda wears her hatred for the Qun on her sleeve, how she understands the language and culture so well still eludes him.

He feels the impact before the cold. Not that he would have been able to see it, it hits him on his blind side. As he turns, he catches a glimpse of a blonde elven kid hiding behind Hissaara in a hurry, snow slowly melting on Bull’s back.

“Maybe save me a couple of feet of that silk one, will you?” Five crowns clink onto Aanda’s stand, on a clear space in between rope and leather swatches. “I have a bunch of children to scare to death,” Bull smirks.

He can see Kasa hiding a smile behind her gloved hand as he crouches down to bunch up a sizeable amount of snow in between his arms. Before he can launch himself in a roar, Bull swears he hears Aanda laugh. The satisfaction is insurmountable.

His pantaloons don’t dry up ‘til dawn.

* * *

Red, against white, against pale pink.

More pink over his wrists and back every time Cullen twists or turns.

The coarse blonde hair over his pale skin is all standing on end, goosebumps pebbling the pale expanse of his back, arms and legs. Bull files down to stock up the chimney a bit higher next session.

Cullen facedown over his sheets under the warm candlelight looks almost like a statue. Red over burnished gold—the sweat slowly gliding down his back, the come visible over the back of his thighs and ass making it even more difficult for Bull to stop looking, to not give in to the impulse to retrace his skin with his lips, with his tongue.

“I’m gonna undo the knots now.”

A barely there nod. A shaky hiccupy sigh follows.

Bull does slow but efficient work of them. They are easy to undo, fingers work their way under and in between folds of rope as he coils it around his wrist. Cullen’s breath hitches every time Bull brushes the pad of his finger against a burn, against a bite. It never gets to the point of quickening enough, but were it not for the fact that he barely got out of a bad withdrawal episode two days prior, they could have gone again. It gets filed down for another time too.

Working on Cullen’s articulations next is easy. He’s as pliable as a kitten under the sun, halting hums follow every touch, every gentle affirmation of _good_ or _alright_.

Warm water on a rag to clean him first, cold water on a tin cup to drink second. Cullen thanks him for both, profusely, his voice rough—as if it were from thanking him and not from screaming. Bull offers him honey and ginger candy drops for that afterwards, of which Cullen manages to get three in his mouth before he closes it around Bull’s finger, a placid smile on his lips.

“Can I ask you something?”

Bull turns his head towards Cullen’s slurred voice. He’s managed to clean himself up and has just finished pulling two logs into the fire when he hears it. It’s quite comical actually, hearing his rumbly baritone come from under so many piled blankets, under which only a tuft of blonde hair peeks, close to the headboard.

“Sure,” Bull nods. He’s next to the bed in two steps, lowering himself to sit on the mattress as Cullen formulates his question.

“Do you want to be like—a father? A father figure?”

Bull snorts at how slowly Cullen speaks, as if piecing each part of the sentence together was mentally and physically taxing.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, ‘cause if that’s not what I already am to poor Krem…”

“To that girl—the _vashoth_ girl,” Cullen hurries himself to say, more of his face surfacing from under the cover. His cheeks are still rosy, and his eyes unfocused; Bull doesn’t think that’s because he’s embarrassed to ask. Not now, not this.

“Don’t think that’s what she needs, _kadan_.” The quilt feels warm under his naked skin, soft and plush, probably recently aired or cleaned.

Cullen makes a small noise of protest, his amber eyes clear up and his expression scrunches up as one of his hands crawls up the covers to pull them a bit lower, just enough for Bull to see his whole face—hair ruffled, expression intent. “Because you didn’t have a one?”

“Nope,” he pops the ‘p’ intentionally, sees the effect it has on Cullen as soon as he frowns. “’s not good for people to—develop some kind of adoration complex for anyone who is good enough to them, anyone who does anything good for them…That can fuck you up pretty badly on the long run.”

“Sorry, that was not—not what I meant,” Cullen halts him. His hand scrambles to grab Bull’s wrist, warm, pulse fast, breath quick. Cullen’s fingers trail up his veins, Bull knows it’s unintentional.

The sigh Bull blows out is heavier than he expected it to be. How he slowly lifts his legs to fit into the bed as he raises the covers, how the mattress shakes more than it should have to. Bull doesn’t make Cullen let go. “You have one of the thickest skulls I’ve ever encountered, Koslun’s balls,” he is aware of how fond he sounds, of how taken aback Cullen looks when he lets their palms fit together—as he is with every kindness. “I was _not_ talking about you.”

“I—I know.” But _does he_? It makes Bull wonder.

Cullen is warm against his side, the heat seeming to seep into the whole bed—the sheets, the mattress, Bull’s body. It makes it easy to lie down, to rest.

“Did you sire any children while in the Qun?” Cullen’s words are quiet, unburdened. His body has inched even closer towards Bull; despite the heat, his feet are still cold, always cold.

“I don’t know.” Lying to Cullen is not an option, never has been, not to someone who has been fed so many lies along his life—wrapped in pretty coloured packages, garlanded with purpose and glory. Not to someone who is so scared of being able to trust, to believe in someone who’s not himself. “I was called four or five times to the _Tamassrans_ but—yeah, not something we ended up having much control over.”

Cullen nods, his face now almost pressed against Bull’s side. Bull inches closer, something loosens inside his gut with the small sigh of relief Cullen exhales.

“I have a nephew, his name’s Alec,” Cullen’s tone is sleepy, almost dreamlike; his words ghost in minuscule puffs of hot breath against Bull’s arm.

“Thought your sister didn’t have any kids?”

Cullen shakes his head, or attempts to—it looks more like he’s rubbing it against the pillow.

“He’s my brother’s, Branson’s…” Cullen has two very differentiated states after a scene—three if you can count when he’s utterly non-verbal. One, painfully oblivious and obvious in his way of communicating what he wants. Two; terribly oblivious and with lines of thought almost impossible to parse, like tonight. “I—I used to think I wanted that too, when all this was over. Kids and—maybe a place for myself. Then I realised a lot of it was the Chantry’s idea of what I should want…” Cullen’s words die out in a halting breath.

“And what do you want now?”

“I’m still figuring it out.” He smiles in a way Bull has very rarely see him do. It’s still wry and crooked, but Cullen’s eyes stare up at him with an intent that makes something very difficult to name bloom in Bull’s chest. “But I think I wouldn’t mind, if I survive…Not having all that and—and having someone like you.”

His lips are kissing Cullen’s before he can reign the _something_ in, a throaty chuckle rumbling its way out, “You’re too good to be true, _kadan_.” He means each and every word; especially the last one.

* * *

There are not many things dulled steel can cut. It can hit hard, leave a nasty looking bruise behind, but probably won’t get to the point of digging into flesh.

Air is one of them.

Dulled steel cuts air with far more noise than sharpened one, with far less precision too.

Steel clashing against steel though? It is a sound that rarely changes.

Cassandra doesn’t falter, her sword arcs up as Cullen swings his, aiming to deflect it. Metal hits metal. A whooping ovation rises from the crowd around the muddied ring, foggy exhalations rising like smoke over the flames.

Cullen swings forth, Cassandra parries—another clash, another round of firm but calculated footwork around the ring. Perspiration makes their light tunics stick, well defined back muscles straining, shoulders tensing, and if Bull catches a more than welcome glimpse of what her armour’s usually hiding, well, he’s not going to object. Cullen on a bit too tight tan leather breeches is also a sight to behold, but one Bull has gotten very self-indulgently used to.

It’s easy to see who’s going to win this one, he can almost feel Cullen’s knees buckling under his own weight when trying to parry Cassandra’s following upfront strike. Bull knows that he will try to push upwards, throw her back once again, but she has her leg ready and whenever that push comes, she’ll kick him down. Dirty tactic, especially useful in friendly matches against people trained to fight with all that self-imposed righteous honour.

It’s like watching a well-executed chess tactic unfold. Expected, but nonetheless satisfying. Cullen pushes up, Cassandra smirks, with a swipe of her leg and an unbecoming yelp, Cullen’s back hits the mud.

Clapping and grinning along with soldiers and some of the Chargers is unavoidable, as Cassandra practically raises Cullen up from the ground when he manages to accept her hand with a wince. Some of the stray curls that have escaped his coif are now dripping dirty water down his face and into his completely ruined shirt, but the rueful smile he first shoots at Cassandra, and a beat later, directs at Bull doesn’t falter. Nothing else exists for that single beat, only Cullen, only the small protesting noise he makes when two scouts dump a heavy blanket on him to guard his body off the bitter winter cold. Only his eyes, still on Bull, lion-like, waiting.

“Is he your _kadan_?”

The beat passes. Cullen gets hidden by the next contestant in the ring, and Bull has to make an effort to reign his breathing in. He hasn’t seen her approach—hasn’t heard her.

“Who taught you that word?” he asks instead, looking down to find Hissaara, bundled up in two or three layers of too big hand-me-down winterwear.

“ _Muti_ used it with _Vati_ all the time. Sometimes with me. Kasa does too, when Aanda isn’t listening.” Her uncertain Nevarran must had come due to shock, how she names her mother and father when speaking Trade clear markers of her South-Nevarran origin, maybe even Anders. “Aanda always listens—I think she doesn’t want Kasa to know.”

“So she _does_ have a heart,” he mutters under his breath.

“Of course she does! It’s this big!” She puts her hands in front of her, tracing a ball in the air the size of a fully-grown nug. “So that we can both fit inside!”

His laugh startles a nearby scout, Bull doesn’t care though, as Hissaara’s smile turns even wider.

“That’s great, kid! If you ever need a hand and they are not around though—”

“I’ll come to you,” she beams, “because all Vashoth take care of each other,” she recites dutifully in a way that gives Bull pause. Hissaara blinks, once, then twice, cocking her head up to look up at him a bit better, a fluffy snowflake lands in her nose, and melts in an instant. “Did I say something wrong?”

For a heartbeat, an intake of breath—everything stops around him, the courtyard turns muted, unimportant, the snow falling over his naked chest is something he barely notices over his own voice replaying once and again the same three words. The ones he had screamed at Trevelyan, then at Cullen, with no less disdain or anger.

 _Tal-Va-fucking-shoth_.

A flash from a time before, somewhere with trees taller than the ones in the Emerald Graves, taller than the cliffs in the Hissing Wastes—Bull doesn’t remember the place, he remembers the smells; _vitaar_ getting washed away by the pouring rain. Wet _gaatlok_ failing to go off as his axe cut, and hissed and—

He forces himself to shake his head, the world comes back into focus, his smile ever-present—unwavering, he hopes. “Nah, you did great. It’s just…” he has to give himself time to think. The explosion is still far too vivid, Gatt’s cursing and belowing as he walked away, the smell of poison in his cuts as Stitches cleaned them out with a deep frown in his face. “’s not always good to trust strangers, ya know. Not all _Vashoth_ are gonna be nice guys, just ‘cause you go ask them for—”

“But you are The Iron Bull!” She says, opening her arms wide, the worn green Inquisition cape on top of her other layers slips, making the hood shag and cover her face; she doesn’t even try to push it aside. “You are not any _tal-vashoth_! You are _so_ big! And _so_ cool! You could defeat any bad guy that tried to fight you! Even Qunari!”

It hits Bull like a wild bronto stampede.

For her it must have been an obvious enough remark, just as she could have mentioned Corypheus or human bandits—the Qun. He might as well be inside the ring, some poor soldier getting his ass handed by Blackwall instead of talking with a child, while trying to feign mild interest in the match not to short-circuit completely because she just hit too close home, _twice_.

A meek whisper raises over the white noise inside his head, the echoes of people and fighting in the courtyard, the silent snow falling from the sky, “I’m sorry. I said something I shouldn’t have again, didn’t I?” She has pulled the green cape up, and her eyes look downcast, uncertain; all previous excitement completely gone.

The snow is beginning to fall more insistently, the wind picking up.

“Nah, you’re doing fine—plus, you’re right! None of those bad boys could do anything against me!” He grins flexing his good arm for good measure, hopes like he hasn’t hoped since the dreadnaught blew up that she cannot read him as well as he read people at her age.

“Really?” she asks, insistent, her little hands curling inside mittens two times her size, black gloves, probably the same size, visible underneath.

The upper courtyard is beginning to empty, smiths and scouts clearing the tables and trestles they were using to hold maps and various weapons up—a blizzard is coming.

“Yep, and you know what we are gonna do?” Bull’s hands come up to fasten the scrappy cape tighter around her shoulders, slapping her back gently when he’s done. “We are going to get some hot cocoa in the kitchens, and Imma tell you about that time I beat some Orlesian guys so badly they convinced other guys I was a dragon, so they didn’t look as shitty.”

“But we aren’t allowed in the kitchen! We will get our fingers rapped!” She clutches her hand tightly around Bull’s as they begin walking slowly down the stairs, more than one curious eye following them down.

“Ah, but that’s where my magic touch comes in.” Bull winks exaggeratedly.

“You can’t do magic!” She giggles in protest, jumping the last two steps to land on a pile of freshly fallen snow.

“Oh, _imekari_ , watch and learn.”

She skips the whole way up to the barn, where the pavement turns too slippery. Bull manages to catch her and carry her in his shoulders through the rear entrance and into the fortress.

The knot that has formed in his throat after talking to Hissaara doesn’t ease up, even if it does get a bit better after Josephine offers to share some of her Orlesian guimauves with them.

* * *

Sometimes, before the sun sets in early winter, before it hides behind the Frostbacks and doesn’t come out until early morning, sometimes, if the sky is clear enough and snow is not about to fall, the light that bathes the battlements and the highest towers in Skyhold is golden.

It creeps into his room slowly, through the westernmost window above, the stained glass making it refract and shine in odd ways over his bed and through the glass and seashell mobiles that hang on top of it. In less than a dry wick lights, the whole room is bathed in pinkish gold. Velvet curtains, dark wood mantlepiece, the stools and table which rest closer to the door, his bed—along whoever is on top of it.

The spread is simple, as far as Bull is concerned, but Cullen might as well just be feeding on hardtack and dry meat to avoid someone the trouble of cooking—so Bull’s ready to make concessions on his assumptions. Two steaming mugs of dark Fereldan tea precariously balanced on a glistening wooden tray pilfered from the kitchen, thick slices of warm brown bread spread with soft cheese, a small jar filled with freshly brought in honeycomb—as if to complement the gilded motif of it all— and, in an unassuming small platter, sits a small pile of soft-looking butter cookies, which may be dwindling a bit faster than anything else.

Cullen makes an arresting centrepiece.

It had taken some coercing and gentle prodding to make Cullen shed his armour and guide him up the ramparts to Bull’s room; _It’s not even past five bells, the Inquisitor didn’t entrust me this post to stay idle_. No insistence had been necessary once he had got Cullen in; he had slowly made his way to the bed, marvelling at the display, his eyes going to Bull as if asking for permission, before he slowly unlaced his boots and allowed himself to gingerly sit down in a corner of the bed—as if touching it would break the illusion for good.

All that tentativeness seems gone now, a tad too worn woollen tunic and leather breeches pooling around his too-thin body, back resting against the headboard as his hands cradle one of the saucers gently, chasing the warmth. It’s the most relaxed Bull’s ever seen Cullen with his clothes on, and, for a brief moment, he lets himself get lost in it; in how his half-lidded copper eyes stray briefly up to look at him, his fingers shaking ever so slightly from time to time, causing ripples on the amber surface of the liquid.

Cullen says something, lips pursing into one of his self-deprecatory smiles, it looks soft on him, completely fitting.

Bull hums, just to keep his façade a bit longer—just to pretend for one more second that he can be as in control of everything as he likes to tell everyone he is.

“My mother used to bake these,” Cullen says as a follow-up, Bull’s head rising immediately to catch the longing in his eyes as he picks up one of the plain butter cookies, already pale fingers getting covered in an extra layer of powdered sugar.

“Josephine always complains about how little is needed to make you satisfied,” Bull grins.

“I wonder if she’s the only one complaining about that,” Cullen cocks his head up, defiant, the blush that blooms up his cheeks failing to make him look as self-assured as he wanted to.

Bull guffaws in response, his smile unmoved, hands depositing the pearl-coloured ceramic cup with barely more than a _clink_ , “Oh, but we both know how difficult it is to keep you happy.”

“Maker, fuck you!” Cullen groans, kicking Bull on his good leg before he’s sitting cross-legged again.

Booming laughter echoes up the recently fixed ceiling, even to the point of making Bull cough before he stops. Cullen’s blush has only got worse, so maybe it’s fitting to give him something in exchange, just enough to divert the embarrassment; maybe even quell some curiosity as a bonus, “I don’t remember much about my _tama_.”

Cullen’s head arches up so fast, Bull’s almost sure he’s pulled a muscle, mouth opening in a soft gasp before Bull smiles and continues talking. He’s doing this willingly, Cullen cannot be the only one to open up—and oh, what a great pun would that have been, had the situation been any different.

“I mean, I remember _a lot_ of what she taught me, and that she was _huge_. Probably had a bigger rack than I do,” he chuckles, eye searching for something in the dark dregs sitting on delicate pearlescent porcelain. “She used to be a researcher, knew a shitton about the ruins there in Par-Vollen, most _Tamassrans_ did, seems like being smart is part of the package when you have to figure out how to handle a rotating bunch of little shits the rest of your life.”

The sun is slowly going down, the few minutes the golden hour bathes Bull’s room coming to an end. There’s a very different kind of gilded beast who won’t leave though. “Is she still alive? Oh, Maker! Forget I asked I…” Cullen’s curls bob slightly as he scratches the nape of his neck, evidently ashamed. Bull finds it quite endearing. Such a quintessentially human thing, to express sorrow through apology.

“Thing is, she is. At least I think so.”

“She is?” Cullen asks, eyes wide open, brow arching up; the beast turned mabari pup.

Bull nods, briefly regretting insisting on bringing so much food—and that it has to be placed in between them. “Cole said something a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, the kid can still feel people who are connected to you by your pain, some shit like that.” _I remember the little boy, too wise, eager to help. Words break in small secret spaces. He got away. He got away._

“Will you look for her? Surely, Leliana won’t mind sending a reckon party over to Tevinter, the closest we can get—”

Questions, lately, only seem to be able to catch him off guard. Cullen though, even if unpredictable, doesn’t have the naivety Hissaara has—though at times, Bull wishes he could have preserved it, perhaps a little bit longer, just so he didn’t have to carry the wisdom of those who have suffered. Of those who still do.

“Nah, wouldn’t do any good. Tracking down someone who you only know from their position in the Qun, it’s fucking hard. Kind of the point of the whole thing, really, just another—”

“Link in the chain,” Cullen whispers at the same time he does. He knows too well, spent too long being part of one bigger, lived too long on a city built on them.

The sun has almost left the room, the fading grey light that precedes dusk giving the space a faded quality to it. The dream is over, the moons, acting as sun surrogates, already up in the sky. Time to wake up.

“I’ve never visited my parents’ graves—back at Honnleath.” Cullen breaks the silence once again. His tea has probably gone cold, his eyes searching for something on Bull’s face, most of the tension that had left his body back in place. “Mia told me they made a decent monument where the village stood, some farmers have even returned to their lands—say they’re free from any trace of Blight,” he scoffs.

“You saying you’ve never thought of going?” Bull asks, smiling at Cullen’s visible surprise.

“Well, I—after Kinloch came Greenfell, and after Greenfell, Kirkwall, so I haven’t had much time to…” his hands gesture vaguely around himself before a deep sigh breaks through his lips, hands falling to his lap. Cullen looks older, now that the light is gone along the sleep-like haze he was basking in moments ago. But it is still him. “Perhaps I’m as scared of the dead as I am of the living,” Cullen acknowledges finally, softly.

A call from outside startles them out of his silence; just a change in the guard shift down the battlements. Cullen should be proud of how efficient his men are, proud of how efficient his watch rotations are—but again, it’s difficult enough to make him see what small progress he’s making in battling his inner demons, so he probably has concluded that their efficacy must not be due to something he’s had any hand in whatsoever.

“Lothering’s what? Six days from here on horseback?” Bull asks when he sees Cullen’s teeth get to the inner part of his lip, just where the scar rests, right hand having slowly drifted towards where his sword would be resting, had he been wearing his belt.

“Six days and a half, if the roads are clear and you do not change mounts in any settlement before getting there,” he responds without missing a beat. “Why?”

“Dunno, seems like an easy trip to make from here. Ask Trevelyan for some days out, get a couple of nights out for our own, do some _riding_.” He winks suggestively watching Cullen’s expression morph into a horrified one.

“Maker’s breath, we can’t! What about the Inquisition? Two weeks out would mean delays, and a complete restructuring of—”

“You’ve got to learn how to relax, Cullen. Josie spent almost a month out for that soirée in Val Chevin, the world is not going to come up in flames just because you finally take your time to grieve properly. Plus, they can always send out a raven if—”

“It’s just not fair!” The top of the bed shakes with the energy with which Cullen’s fist comes down, fingers tangling over the covers as his eyes waver from looking straight into Bull’s to find a corner in the room to move over to. _Bullseye_.

“I’m gonna humor you and ask what’s not.” Bull knows his smile is crooked, he just hopes he’s holding the looking relaxed front better than Cullen’s managing it at the moment, with his twitching fingers and agitated breath.

“Don’t be obtuse, it’s pretty fucking obvious,” he chuckles full of scorn. “That I get the chance to make up with this part of my past and you don’t”.

“Yeah, you know I don’t need that, not right now and not like you do.” The taste of the lie sits as thick as honey in his tongue.

Cullen’s eyes flash up with triumph. “Should we call Cole and ask him about that?”

“Fucking void, Cullen! We both know there’s very little fairness to be found while one leads a life like ours!” He moves to stand, carelessly, wanting to maybe stretch his bad leg, maybe just gain some perspective from his usual height, even if there’s none to be found—this is not the battlefield after all.

Bull manages to catch the tray before it topples and falls with its contents to the ground, Cullen’s expression softening for an instant as he crawls across the bed to help him lower it down to the floor, his brows tightly knit together, the distance in between them cut short to less than a hair.

Cullen’s body still feels warm from the sun, his heartbeat still rapid against his chest, and it’s so easy to cradle his hand in between his, to slowly pull him closer, Bull’s face contorting when he sees him kneeling in front of him, face refusing to look up. “I know! Maker, I know. But I wanted—I wanted to give you something, after all that you have given me. Just a little fairness,” he whispers.

 _Fuck_ , Bull doesn’t know if he just thinks it or if it actually comes out of his lips in one deep breath. His other hand finds the nape of Cullen’s neck and brings him even closer, their foreheads meeting gently, _finally_ bridging the distance.

“ _Kadan_ ,” the enunciation is shaky, as much as Cullen’s breath is. His lips feel soft against Bull’s skin, the butterfly wing-like fleetingness of one being pressed to the bridge of his nose. “All this trust you give me, all this _devotion_ ,” Bull can feel Cullen swallow hard at the word, his breath halting. “The fact that you are able to be so open to something like this, like _us_ , after what they’ve done to you, it’s more than enough.”

A small and breathy laugh snakes out of Cullen’s lips, his arms now draped over Bull’s back, not wanting to let go. “If Varric catches you saying any of that he’ll turn you into the protagonist of his next novel.”

“Horns and Devotion?” Bull smirks, Cullen’s laughter hitting his bared chest in hot gusts of air.

“Andraste’s arse, would he make me a swooning maid in the cover?”

“He’d totally make you a swooning maid in the cover.”

Cullen’s laughter rings along his, softer, lighter, his whole body now perched against Bull’s, kneeling in his lap as his face rest gently against his shoulder.

Light may have completely left the tower, the only remnants of it coming from the dying embers in the chimney, but breathing in unison, one against the other, Bull hasn’t felt more welcomed anywhere ever. In the night, in the dark.

* * *

Travelling to the Exalted Plains means almost a week on the road. Cold nights spent on shared tents make them less harsh, and, if he ends up having to sleep with Blackwall, he’ll at least get good ale. Good stories if his partner is Varric. Soft giggles and a hauntingly green bathed canvas if it’s Trevelyan.

He’s found a canto to recite before he leaves, words no one but him will hear, but that he hopes settle the part of him that’s worried about Cullen. Winter months have not been kind to him, the nights are longer, more difficult to spend on his own. Withdrawal hits harder. His articulations almost certainly ache just as much as Bull’s do, and his nightmares don’t seem to abate easier.

Bull had offered him his room countless times; warmer, safer, and far more comfortable than having to climb that damn ladder of his to get some proper rest. Cullen had smiled, rejected each and every one of them. He knows that it’s because of the stars—they keep Cullen from fixing his roof, but also from losing his mind after too many nights sleeping in an enclosed space. Bull’s glad his own soul-sickness hasn’t made him _that_ inconvenient, while he mourns how Cullen’s makes him suffer for naught.

Rough hempen rope loops easily around the small pack with his belongings, being able to travel so light a novelty on its own. After so many years out in the open, it still feels new to have a place to return to—people to come back to.

This time, Bull hears her come, her little feet pounding against the wet cobblestones making him raise his head as they are guiding their mounts towards the portcullis. He hands Blackwall his Warmblood gelding’s reins, his steps carrying him close to the stairs that descend from the upper courtyard just as Hissaara reaches the bottom.

“What are you doing up so early? Bedbugs wouldn’t let you sleep?”

Her hair looks almost silver in the early morning light, wild and still full of fairy-knots, the soft orange of dawn trickling down the wall catching on her green eyes giving her an almost manic intent, as she approaches Bull in as long strides as she can manage.

“The Iron Bull!” She calls, voice loud and clear, alerting some healers from the nearby pavilion who seem to have barely got out of a tormentous nightshift. It would honestly surprise Bull seeing someone with so much energy in the morning had he not spent half his life surrounded by soldiers afflicted by the same quirk. “Kasa said you’re leaving!” She looks annoyed by the fact, angry.

“It’s just gonna be a month, kid. We’ll be back before Firstfall’s over.” It would be the first time in a _long_ while in which he’d have to celebrate Satinalia away from the Charger’s if they got too derailed, even if Trevelyan was dead set on returning before the festivities began, the name of Sera not having been mentioned once, but her presence implied in each and every clarification of how long the journey would take.

“But I won’t be here by then!” She protests, clutching even tighter the small parcel she’s holding in her small trembling hands.

“You are leaving?”

She nods, looking away instantly, all excitement gone. “Aanda wants us to meet her parents before Satinalia, so we are going to a place called Oak Ridge.”

Bull knows the town, it’s a small settlement not far from Cumberland, a travelling outpost for those who are getting to the city from inland or are planning to march towards Tevinter and the Free Marches. He remembers a tavern in the outskirts; nice ale, even nicer serving girls. He pretends his memories distract him enough from a Vashoth with a living and settled family, one who decided to make a living away from that, but still, away from mercenary work, away from conflict. “They breed dracolisks there,” he says instead. “They may let you ride one if you behave while at sea.”

“Master Dennet has already shown me the ones here, and they are not _that_ cool,” Hissaara mutters under her breath, thin clouds of it raising up to Bull’s chest. “And the sea is—scary. It’s too big and dark. You don’t know what’s underneath all that water.” There’s a story there, Bull can smell it, were he not in a hurry he would talk to her, try to make it better, but as things are, he can only hope that fear turns into respect as the years pass.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, kid. Those two,” Bull nods towards the empty stall were Kasa and Aanda’s wares will be placed in a few hours, “care a lot about you.”

“I know!” She says before he can add anything else, “But I—I wanted to give you something, so you remember.” Her hands open, a small red bundle of cloth offered up in his direction.

He gently picks it up, feels the worn silk of the robe in which Hissaara had been bundled up when they found her, the tight knots of the rope he got from Aanda less than a week ago, weaving a spider-web like net, a small bluish iron pebble neatly bound in the middle. He can feel his throat tighten, the pad of his thumb brushing the amulet with care.

“Kasa told me that when you fight a lot for the People, you usually want to forget, because you have very bad memories. But even if you have very bad memories, I don’t want you to forget me. And I don’t wanna forget you.” She shows him a small bracelet knotted in a similar pattern to the one she’s given him, matching scraps of mineral knotted in a neat row. “Because you are the Iron Bull, and Vashoth take care of each other!!”

He holds his breath, not needing to touch to _know_ that the materials are the exact same. “Fuck, you are amazing, _imekari_. Don’t you ever dare forget,” he says, even if it sounds strained to his own ears, too sad for such a joyful moment. The knot her words form in his stomach hasn’t eased from the first time he heard them, makes it easier to pick her up with a little huff of breath, laughing out loud when he bends a little so he can properly hug her, and she starts giggling as his face brushes hers.

“Your beard tickles,” she complains as she holds tighter around his neck, impossibly tighter. It doesn’t make him let go.

“Bull!” He would recognise Trevelyan’s voice from miles away though, so this does make him ease his hold and slowly back up. “We really need to get going if we don’t want to put up with Varric and his being atop something four times his height rambles!” She’s waving him over from the gate, the echo carrying across the courtyard.

“Loud and clear, Boss!” He turns around to acknowledge her before he faces Hissaara one last time. “Duty calls. Gotta go kick some Orlesian asses, maybe even some demons,” he smirks conspiratorially.

She nods energetically, her eyes trailing his hands as he places the amulet in one of the pouches up the arm of his harness, the one closest to the heart. “You go help lots of people,” she smiles. “And you’ll tell me all about it whenever we come back.”

Her enthusiasm is contagious, Bull’s eyes catching for a second the copper-like glint of someone coming out of Cullen’s tower, crossing through the walkway atop of the ramparts to the library in a hurried pace, sun catching on his silverite armour. The figure stops, looking down at them, and Bull feels that same enthusiasm for their return in his bones.

“Sure, whenever you come back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a bunch for reading! If you enjoyed this fic consider leaving a comment/kudos. They fuel me to continue doing what I do! :DD
> 
> Brief _Qunlat_ glossary taken from [ here ](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Qunlat) if you wanna check others (in order of appearance):  
> \- _Hissaara_ [ _Hissera_ (hope)+ _Asaara_ (wind)] is not one of the words which’s meaning we know from the qunlat we have been given in canon, so I decided to do some amateur linguistics based on other vocabulary we have and the Qun’s penchant for metaphor and voilá. My other option for her name was _Hisserah_ , Hissera+ _Herah_ (time), which I think could also turn out to be “revolution”, but again this is all speculation.  
> \- _Ashkaari_ : One who thinks/seeks. Scientists and philosophers use this title.  
> \- _Tama_ : Short for tamassran , “those who speak”, priestesses in charge of raising children, interrogating captives and assigning their roles to those under the Qun.  
> \- _Kasa_ : Sun  
> \- _Aanda_ : Dew  
> \- _Kasaanda_ : “Sundew”, a carnivorous plant.  
> \- _Asit tal eb_ : “It is to be”, “The way things are meant to be” or as I like to interpret it “It is what it is”.  
> \- _Vashedan_ : “Crap,” common curse word.  
> \- _Vitaar_ : “Poison armour”, Qunari warpaint that’s toxic to non-kossith.  
> \- _Gaatlok_ : Qunari black powder, gunpowder.  
> \- _Imekari_ : Child
> 
> Now for additional notes:  
> -This fic was born out of my need to see more exploration of how Bull’s relationship to his tama was, because I’ve seen very little of it in fandom, I hope I did them justice. It was entitled “THE CHILD IS A METAPHOR FOR HEREDITARY TRAUMA” while on my WIP folder, and even if the fic didn’t end up going in that direction completely.  
> -“Soul-sickness” or _asala taar_ is not my own way of calling PTSD in Thedas, it’s the Qunari’s way. Mentioned in World of Thedas vol.2., it’s what most soldiers who go to Seheron and back suffer from before asking for re-education, including Bull.  
> -I wish “Such a quintessentially human thing, to express sorrow through apology,” was mine, but it’s not. The quote is from Becky Chambers masterful _The Long Way to a Small Angry Planet_ . I had the phrase jotted down somewhere and apparently also memorised, because suddenly I found it here while editing.  
> -I have four drafts which stemmed out from prompts of the IronLion week. I don’t know if I’ll finish them all, but if any end up getting posted I’ll try to put them all together in a series.
> 
> You can also find me on [ Tumblr ](https://midwrites.tumblr.com/)!


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